


Best Served Cold

by Natzo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Justice, Revenge, ending spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natzo/pseuds/Natzo
Summary: Spoilers for the Ending of Red Dead Redemption 2.If he didn't get revenge in this life, he would be damn sure he got it in the next. Thanks to Xbro King for checking this.





	Best Served Cold

Arthur could safely say this was the worst day of his life.

Finding his wife and son’s graves felt like an out-of-body experience and he had time to deal with it. The tragedy had already happened by the time he arrived at the little homestead. Not like this fucking day where everything came crashing down after months of pilling up, with Arthur living every minute of it one after another. And all because of the scumbag that was trying to kill him now.

He never liked Micah. He was always a bootlicker and an all-around asshole. John was right, they should’ve killed him months ago. Not that it mattered now. Only their brawl mattered. Their guns and knives had already fallen through the ravine, leaving the two hate-filled men with nothing but their fists to try and kill each other. They traded grapples and punches, each trying to end the other with burning hatred.

"That all you got, Morgan?!" Micah shouted as he punched Arthur on the side.

"Shut the fuck up, rat!" Arthur gritted out, coughing blood as he exerted himself. The day had taken a toll on him. The train job, Milton and the damn Pinkertons, and the Dutch. Dutch. His anger at his so-called family fueled his muscles past their limits even as his entire body felt like it was covered in fire. He was about to punch again when a cough stopped him and made Arthur step back.

"Trouble breathin’ there, Black Lung?!" the traitorous bastard taunted as he tried to move in.

Blocking the punch and feeling his bones rattle at the impact, Arthur cursed his damn sickness once more. He wheezed and punched Micah in the kidney. With the distance gained, he improvised. He took the stone arrow amulet he found in one of his trips and used it to gouge out Micah’s eye.

His scream of pain was music to his ears. A nice swan song for Arthur.

“Oh, you got me good, Black Lung,” Micah hissed, putting pressure on his messed up eye as blood spilled through his fingers.

“You talk... too much for someone who can’t kill a dying man!” he spat, making the bastard angrier.

A mistake. Micah moved past his guard, slamming him against the mountain wall and wrapped his dirty paws around his throat.

“A dying man? Yes, that’s what you are, Morgan! Me? I’m a survivor!”

The air became tight. His lungs burned but sheer hatred kept his heart pumping. How he wished he had followed his gut and dropped a stick of dynamite on Strawberry’s jail all those months ago. Having the cops on him would’ve been worth having Micah smeared on the walls.

He tried to fight the bastard’s hold, but his strength was nowhere near what it used to be. Once more. Had he not beaten that poor guy for a few bucks for Strauss, he would be in top shape. Had Mr. Downes not spat blood on him he wouldn’t have tuberculosis and Micah would be nothing more than a corpse. All because of this same disease.

The disease.

An idea came to his mind. It was irony and vengeance all in one package, but damn it all. He had nothing to lose. Heh. Now that he was in a brawl his mind was clearer. It was funny. Had he not contracted tuberculosis, Arthur wouldn’t have changed his ways. He wouldn’t have seen where their path had taken them. He would just be another blind pawn of Dutch’s madness.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose as blood filled his mouth. The dying man felt crisp, cold air and burning pain fill his lungs as the time slowed to a crawl. He remembered all the betrayals. All the shit he had gone through the past months, only increasing in the past weeks culminating in one of the worst shit-filled days of his life.

He transformed that rage into strength. Arthur glared at Micah's smug, yellow-teeth filled smile. He saw the open wound where the rat’s eyeball used to be. All the cuts he gave Micah during their brawl. As soon as the bastard opened his mouth to taunt him, Arthur spat the glob of blood into his face.

Micah recoiled in shock, letting go of him by reflex as he tried to clean his vision.

"What the fuck, Morgan!?" he snarled, clearly not aware of the implication of the action.

_"Just a sharin’ somethin’ with you,_ partner _,_ " Arthur thought, giving him a bloody smile before tackling him once more and breaking the rat's nose with renewed vigor.

“Oh! Haha! You got me pretty good there, Black Lung!”

They traded blows for a minute longer, but time was running out for Arthur. He was stalling. Every second he distracted Micah was another second John could get further away from him. The gunslinger knew he would die today, either by sickness or Micah, but he would not go gently.

Then he saw it. One of their guns had not fallen over the edge. This was the end, and if his gamble worked then Micah was a dead man walking, but maybe he could put a bullet between his eyeballs and end everything now.

“Oh, Black Lung…” Micah said as he stood, sure of his victory. Arthur could feel him shaking his head condescendingly. “You ain’t gonna reach that gun.”

He crawled to the weapon, his fingernails digging into the ground to drag him closer to the revolver.

“In the end, Micah... despite all my best efforts to the contrary… it turns out I’ve won.”

He had. John and the others were away by now.

As he gripped the gun, a boot stepped on his hand, stopping him cold. He knew that boot.

“Arthur,” a familiar voice said, tired and disappointed. “It’s over.”

“Oh, Dutch...” Arthur gasped, looking up to the conflicted gaze of his father figure. “He’s a rat. I know it and you know it.”

Micah made his way to them, once more whispering his lies into Dutch’s ears. “He’s sick, Dutch. He’s talking crazy.”

“I... I gave you _all I had,”_ he gritted out, his lung burning up. _“I did.”_ Each breath was a struggle but if he was dying he would make sure Dutch knew Arthur knew the truth now. “All that talk about faith and loyalty and new life… you never wanted that. No… You never wanted to leave this life... You wanted a cult where no one questioned you. That was your plan.”

“Son, I–” Dutch started, stumbling on his words. Not that Arthur wanted to hear anything else from him. Listening to Dutch was what got them on this mess.

“Dutch… Let’s go, buddy. We made it. We won!” Micah insisted as the sounds of the Pinkertons closing on them increased.

“ _John_ made it. He is the only one of us that made it... despite your best efforts, Dutch,” Arthur spat, his breath growing labored. “But the rest of us... No….”

Why couldn’t they kill Dutch and spare Hosea? They would be better off. But in a way, he made it out doing some good. John and his family were safe. His death wasn’t meaningless.

“But _me_? I tried...” he said, not looking at them. “And in the end... I did.”

He barely registered the exchange between Micah and Dutch. Both maniacs could rot for all he cared. Arthur heard them walk away, with the Pinkertons hot on their trail. Maybe if luck smiled on him, they will all kill each other. He saw the sky start to brighten and crawled up the path. He wanted to see the sun one last time.

Using the last of his strength, Arthur propped his body against a rock and watch the raisin run. It gave him a chance to look back on all the good and bad things he had done. All the folks he killed for some cash. The cops he killed, despite only doing their jobs. Screw all of Dutch’s talks. They were all killers and that European cunt in Saint-Denis had been right. They were what people were running away from. They weren’t some Robin Hood gang. They were barely any better than the O’Driscolls at the end.

But… he tried.

The Downes. He hoped his actions could at least helped get back to their feet.

Charlotte would survive now, even if she was alone. She was strong now.

Beau Gray and Penelope Braithwaite had a chance at happiness, now free from their families’ chains.

He hoped Hercule Fontaine succeeded on his campaign in Guarma.

Lyndon Monroe, the good soldier. For all the crap the government sent their way, he was evidence that there were good men working for the good of the people, despite Dutch’s words.

Rain Falls and Eagle Flies… they deserved better than the chaos the gang brought them.

Hopefully, Hamish will forgive him for not being able to take care of Buell any longer. At least he was safe in a stable. Maybe he would find a good home.

Maybe Albert Mason will grow a spine and sense of self-preservation. He did take some nice pictures.

Even after all the crap he went through because of his skin color, Dr. Alphonse Renard still helped people.

Brother Dorkins and Sister Calderon. If they didn’t become saints, he would crawl out of hell and talk to the big guy himself.

And Mary… Mary Linton. Damn woman was his curse. He loved her, but they could never be together. Only at the end of his life had he changed his ways.

They lost many in this fool’s path. Davey, Mac, Jenny, Molly, Susan, Sean, Hosea, Lenny, Kieran. All because they trusted Dutch and they took in that rat Micah.

But some of them had made it out. John, Abigail, Jack, Pearson, Mary-Beth, Tilly, Karen, Charles, and Uncle. _They made it out._

Micah was wrong. Arthur won and maybe, just maybe, he earned his redemption.

As he took his last breath, Arthur gazed into the sunrise and smiled.

* * *

**_Four Months Later…_ **

* * *

Leaving a trail of blood behind, Micah stumbled out of the damn doctor’s office into the dark streets after stabbing the man with his own scalpel. The news he received filled with dread and rage. He needed to get away or he could kill someone else tonight. He mounted his horse and rode to his hideout. The outlaw didn’t make it far out of town before his vision blurred and he fell off his horse into the rocky path.

Rolling to his side, Micah coughed into his hand and saw the specks of blood. The moonlight reflected into the red liquid and he could swear that he saw Morgan’s smiling face looking back at him. He closed a trembling fist in rage and screamed to the heavens.

"DAMN YOU, ARTHUR MORGAN!"

**Author's Note:**

> From all the blood spilled in that fistfight, it's a miracle Micah didn’t get tuberculosis. I also feel Arthur, despite his previous respect and love for Dutch, didn’t call him out enough in the end. Took the eye part out of the Money ending. Funny thing is that if Micah dies the Edgar Ross can’t track down John and his family.


End file.
